


Folie à Deux

by Ashevan



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: AU, Folie à Deux (Fall Out Boy), M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-04 23:07:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17313587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashevan/pseuds/Ashevan
Summary: Patrick has a new client to look after, but he wasn't expecting anything like this.Plus, there's something about him Patrick can't describe. It's too repelling yet too intriguing.(AU where Patrick and Pete share folie à deux)[Still a work in progress!]





	1. 27

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how often I'll be updating this, but I'll do my best to make it somewhat frequent!  
> Hope you enjoy!

Patrick was new to this place, familiar with the ideas hidden inside. Such a ‘friendly, common face’ oozing with thoughts ‘so distant and off-the-rails’ like the rest. It was such an idiotic stereotype to latch on to, in Patrick’s opinion, at least. He had dealt with a multitude of clients, knew his boundaries, and knew his tactics. It was important for him (and _especially_ for others) to have faith in these people and work with them.

It wasn’t too much of a struggle for Patrick. Quite honestly, he found some joy seeing his clients and spending time with them each day. Occasionally during his time off, he’d pop in one or two rooms just for a quick visit, and being in their company alone made Patrick feel warm inside. One or two times a month, if he was in an especially good mood, Patrick would pass out cookies, tea, or other treats for his clients and co-workers to enjoy. All in all, he had built up a pretty good reputation in his field and was proud of himself for doing so.

He was doing well. He was enjoying himself. This newest client would be no change in that streak, though his co-workers certainly had stirred up a fuss once Patrick accepted the ‘challenge’.

According to the boss himself, they had thought long and hard about taking on this client: he had struggled to even reach their facility, an idea that filled Patrick with bewilderment. His boss clarified that the parents were the ones to reach out; however, their son never answered his phone, never stepped outside, and never wanted outside help. The tone in his boss’s voice was cut-throat and Patrick swore he felt his heart skip a beat. With a sigh from Patrick’s superior, his voice grew more soothing, the tone similar to Patrick’s greetings approaching clients. It almost seemed like his boss had faith in him.

 _Almost_.

Something about it felt hopeless like this whole meeting was a tease, like Patrick couldn’t handle it.

Literally standing his ground, Patrick figuratively stood his ground, insisting he take this client. He was aware of the time devotion expressed by his boss several times throughout the lecture and though it pained him to lose time with his current clients, Patrick wanted to help as best he could. If anyone could do this, it was Patrick Stump. He was sure of it.

The house had a friendly, common face. (How shocking.) From the eerie two-hour description of his new client, Patrick felt a little disappointed. He let out a small chuckle as he reached the driveway of house 27, taking in the residence he would be visiting for a while: the mailbox was stuffed to the brim, the mouth of the box hanging wide open, almost unhinged completely. White envelopes foamed at its mouth, several older ones scattered around the post. It appeared slightly rusty, the house number renailed onto the side so that it could only be read correctly through a mirror. A silhouette of their previous location made it easy to identify this was indeed the correct home.

The lawn was not the brightest green, though it didn’t consist of dead grass as Patrick would have (unfortunately) presumed. There were several locations where Patrick spotted weeds, making a mental note to potentially utilize later on. Other than a few flat stones intentionally placed to the left surrounding an abandoned birdbath, there wasn’t much else to regard.

Patrick swiftly approached the door, taking a deep breath before knocking. He wanted to be certain he was in the best and most tolerable mood possible, especially for the first time meeting his new client.

After several raps on the door, only silence followed. Patrick’s eyebrows furrowed slightly in confusion before knocking again, slightly harder this time.

A paused ensued before a muffled response:

“Why?”

 _Why?_ Patrick had encountered many responses: groaning in irritation, over-enthusiasm, mere silence. This, however, was not what he had been expecting in the slightest. He took a breath, a reminder to keep calm. He could do this.

“I’m sorry?”

“Why are you here?”

The question of who had been omitted completely. It didn’t matter to this man _who_ Patrick was, only _why_. It held Patrick’s interest, much more than most ideas had in the past. Nevertheless, Patrick hesitated once more before responding, careful to avoid the topic of the client’s parents.

“I’m here from The Wilmette-”

“Leave.” Patrick felt his mouth hang ajar at the response. He must have looked idiotic loitering at the man’s doorstep for so long, his only form of communication through a dull maroon door. What was worse, now he had grown speechless, motionless, and bested by his own client whose appearance remained a mystery, let alone a name of any sort. The more the ideas paced the floors of his mind, the less sense this made. Why hadn’t his boss given a name? An issue? Was it possible he was just as unaware as Patrick? His thoughts were abruptly interrupted before he could analyze this any further.

“You’re still there.” His client bluntly replied. His client had spoken three sentences and each felt like a two by four was being swung at Patrick’s head. Sure, Patrick had no reason to leave and didn’t plan on it. He wasn’t going to give up on his new client before meeting him, that was for sure. Patrick wasn’t many things, but he was determined (and slightly stubborn).

“Oh-uh, I-”

“A-and I told you to leave.” With each word masked by the maroon door, Patrick could hear something different in the man’s voice. The tone wasn’t rude–far from it actually, despite his terrible tone. Rather, it was defensive, full of fear hidden in feigned anger.

“W-”

“Didn’t you hear me?” This was getting nowhere. The cold was biting at Patrick’s ankles and wrists, and a piece of him wanted more than anything to get in this house, to see this mysterious man’s face, to listen to him and his stories.

“I know why you’re here, and I don’t need to be fixed so just _go away!_ ”

“Listen, I-”

“ _GO. AWAY._ ” A pound on the door followed the stranger’s outburst.

“I’m not here to _fix_ anything! Okay!? I-” Patrick was losing his cool, but it was hard to blame him. He saw no reactions; anyone would agree it was easier to lash out at a door than at a person. He took an audible sigh, adjusting his fedora and running a hand through his hair.

“I’m here to _listen_ to you. Look, I don’t have to come back here. Ever. You can kick me out for good after today, I don’t care, but just for this one time. Let me be the one to hear you out. I’m sure there’s _something_ on your mind or _something_ you need someone to hear.” His cheeks were flushed with partial irritation as he let out another huff to himself. Talking to his guy was way more effort than it should have been, though it was most likely what was intended. Patrick could only imagine the multitude of visitors beginning to see the man again, met with nothing but a cold demeanor or silence. Patrick was met with the latter once again.

“I’m not leaving until we’ve talked face to face for our hour session.” He had cooled down, feeling confident—though a little nervous—about his statement. He began to hum a tune softly to himself, one he had been messing around with at home. His music always put him in a better state of mind, cleansed his body from tension and unneeded frustrations. For this specifically, he had written out a few phrases of lyrics, though was still unsure of where to place them. Patrick was no lyricist, so creating something decent had been a huge confidence boost.

 _“Mama,”_ he began to hum, _“If we don’t...something something, we won’t sleep today.”_

In the middle of his groove, Patrick heard a small click of the door, jumping back from the maroon support he had been leaning on for five minutes now. The door opened a crack, though not enough to see anything or anyone inside.

“Just one hour.” The voice was much clearer, closer than before. Patrick felt himself growing anxious, felt a growing need to commence the session.

“Just one hour,” Patrick repeated, flashing an unseen smile to the stranger.

He had cracked the code, solved the mystery, and had never been more grateful to meet a stranger. The stranger had opened the maroon door a normal amount, revealing himself. He was slightly taller than Patrick with poorly applied eyeliner partially smudged below his eyes. Straight, black hair fell to the side, partially covering his right eye. He dressed in what appeared to be pajamas or just clothes way too casual for an average destination. Clutched in his hand was a small black journal with a worn out spine stuffed with an assortment of looseleaf papers. Patrick could only wonder what thoughts stained those pages.

“I’m Pete.” From his expression, Patrick really couldn’t get too much of a sense of what this guy was about, though he wasn’t complaining. It was apparent Pete was going to be a long-term project despite Patrick’s deal at the door. Patrick had an hour for this to go as smoothly as possible and he had no intention to mess this up. If anyone could do this, it was Patrick Stump.

Though, he wasn’t too sure anymore.


	2. (Coffee's for Closers)

Pete had led him to (what Patrick presumed was) the living room and inquired if Patrick wanted any refreshments or background noise. He declined the latter but accepted a cup of coffee. Patrick wasn’t as addicted as others and didn’t rely solely on caffeine to get him through the day. He felt it was senseless to do so, anyway.

His eyes traced the messy tabletop before him, covered in empty cups, pens, and graffiti. Patrick could only wonder what Pete’s parents thought of such vandalization, or if they even cared at all. Perhaps they were unaware altogether.

A ripped out page branded by the bottom of a coffee cup had several crossed out phrases stained on its surface, one lone sentence in thick black ink:

_When they made me, they broke the mold._

A couple doodles pulled the piece together, but the writing was almost entrancing. The way each letter flowed to the next in chaotic order. Patrick was tempted to fold it up, keep it for himself, though he was certain Pete would notice.

Pete returned with a steaming cup in each hand, placing the first in front of Patrick and keeping the second for himself. Patrick let out a soft thank you as Pete sat down in the lone chair to Patrick’s right. He appeared almost uncomfortable in his own house, residing in his own chair. Pete’s eyes wandered the room as though it was his first time visiting or he was having trouble adjusting to new changes. Taking a small sip of his coffee, Patrick decided it was time to start. He only had an hour.

“So, is there anything on your mind you’d like to talk about? Remember, I’m here to listen, not to try and fix you.” He made sure to repeat his previous guarantee to potentially ease Pete’s apparent unsettlement.

“Is it Patrick? Your name.” Patrick felt his face go white, though he couldn’t pinpoint an exact feeling to go with it. White with fear? Confusion? Frustration? Goosebumps formed on the back of his neck, his body shaking as inconspicuously as possible. How could Pete know his name? Perhaps it was a lucky guess, though it seemed more than unlikely. He hadn’t mentioned his name, had he?

“Uh...yes…” Patrick slowly responded, eyes glued onto Pete’s intense, sober expression.

“I don’t have to call you Mr. Stump, or anything, do I?” Okay, this was not a coincidence. This guy knew something, or was up to something, or knew ahead of time. He must have gotten in contact with the facility. It was the only explanation despite what his boss had said about Pete’s lack of communication.

“No, but…h-how did you know that?”

“Know what?”

“My name. How did you know my name?” Patrick let out a shaky breath in silence, intensely locked onto every last one of Pete’s movements. Pete’s voice was soft once he responded.

“My family doesn’t like to talk about it, but...there’s a certain ability we can inherit that’s passed down from each generation. Usually, you’re lucky enough to omit the symptoms, but...my great-grandfather and I are both cursed with it. I-it’s just…” Pete let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s just really hard to talk about. You wouldn’t understand, anyway.”

“Oh.” It was all Patrick could muster out, his mind overflowing with inquiries and conflicting ideas. What exactly was this? Why hadn’t he heard of anything like this before? Cursed? How could that–

“Nah, I’m screwing with you.” Pete’s head popped up from his hand, his mouth bloomed into an enormous grin, his chuckle filling the room.

“ _What?!_ ”

“You should have seen the look on your face, though!”

“But–but you knew m–”

“You’re wearing a nametag, Patrick.”

Patrick’s head whipped down to regard a large sticker placed on his chest:

_Hello! My name is Patrick Stump_

It was from their training this morning. The facility had recently hired five new members and felt it necessary to make them comfortable with their new co-workers. Patrick had ran two of the sessions and felt a nametag would make it less awkward for anyone to approach him. One could always find comfort in knowing someone, even if it was simply their name.

Patrick let out an embarrassed groan, hiding his bright red face in his hands. It caused Pete to laugh once more.

“I can’t believe I forgot I was wearing a nametag,” Patrick mumbled to himself, sighing in defeat. This was going _swimmingly_. First, Patrick embarrassed himself within five minutes of actually meeting this guy, then, he’d lose his patient and who knew what his boss had in store after that?

“It happens, man. At least you won’t lose it.”

“Right.” Patrick wasn’t sure if Pete was referring to the nametag or his name, but he decided not to ask.

“So, what were you crooning out there?”

“What?” Did he really hear that? “Oh, uh–” Patrick let out a soft, embarrassed chuckle, “It’s uh...it’s just something I was fiddling with at home.”

“You sing?”

“Yeah, I, uh...yeah. I also play, like, guitar, drums,” Patrick nodded, “I haven’t had time to do much more than mess with stuff.”

“You have time right now.” Patrick’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion once more. They were supposed to be discussing _Pete_ and _Pete’s_ thoughts, not Patrick’s life. He wasn't too interesting, in his opinion. Though, he wasn’t sure if opening up to Pete would give him a better chance of Pete doing the same for him.

He really hoped it would.

“I didn’t bring my instruments with me, Pete.”

“Just do what you were doing outside. I wanna hear it.”

Patrick sheepishly fidgeted with his fedora, clearing his throat softly as he sank back into the sofa. It wasn’t anything finished, his tune, and he wasn’t the most comfortable performing for his patient whom he had just met. Patrick was used to the patient being the nervous one, the one afraid to speak up or voice their thoughts.

“Do it,” Pete commanded, flashing Patrick another smile. The tone sent a spike through Patrick’s chest.

“I-I was thinking something like, uh…” Patrick began to tap his foot to a steady beat, humming something to himself before beginning once more.

“ _Mama, if we don’t something, something, we won’t sleep today._ And then it might repeat, er...something. That’s about as far as I got before I had to leave for work.” Patrick giggled to himself, his smile fading the longer he studied Pete’s furrowed brows and displeased expression.

“I think you should change the last part.” Pete’s comment was blunt, almost extinguishing Patrick’s weak flame, but not quite. He was open to criticism, though he was certainly not expecting to get it here.

“To…”

“I don’t know yet.” Pete’s face remained entranced in thought, his hand now gripped around one of the lone pens scattered on the table. The pen danced on the surface of a crumpled up piece of paper close to Pete’s side of the table for a few moments longer before being thrown back down to the curb.

“I think the melody is really cool.” Pete flashed a smile Patrick’s way. “I feel like I’ve heard your voice somewhere before.” An awkward chuckle flies from Patrick’s mouth, unaware of what to say in response.

A series of beeps sounded from Patrick’s wrist, causing him to look at the time. It had already been an hour and Patrick had done nothing but talk about himself. This was the exact opposite of what he had wanted. He felt frustration fester inside him as the thought circled through his mind.

“I’m guessing that’s time?”

“Yeah,” Patrick sighed, removing himself from the sofa and briskly seeing himself to the door. It had already been an hour. He had already failed his mission. He didn’t need to dwell in his failures any longer than necessary. “It was great to meet you, Pete.” He forced a smile as he adjusted his spectacles, receiving one in return.

“Keep working on your song, okay? I’ll see what I can figure out for that last part.” Patrick was beginning to realize Pete had more than enough ways to silence Patrick with his own bewilderment. A short moment passed before Pete spoke again.

“So what’s your deal with appointments? Is it a weekly thing?”  
“Most times, yeah, but depending on the person I’ll see them as much as they see fit.”

“Cool.” A moment of silence hung between them, Patrick unsure if that was the signal to take his leave. The outside looked so tempting, so normal, but Pete was something else. Even after being in his presence for just over an hour, Patrick had new, peculiar sensations running through his veins. He was something Patrick had never seen before, something he wanted to study and understand.

“Same time next week?” The voice startled Patrick back into reality, his cheeks flushing a soft pink.

“Uh–yes, that would be excellent. Does that work for you?”

“Yeah. See you then, Stumpman.” With that, Patrick was released from the home of exceptional thought. The maroon door slammed behind Patrick, leaving him with the open world and his own, trivial ideas. A loud sigh escaped his lips as he adjusted his glasses.

The appointment was nothing like he had imagined, but he would say it was a rather successful one.


	3. w.a.m.s. (What About My Secret?)

“That’s garbage, too.” Patrick huffed at his desk, scribbling out a progression previously written in his notebook. In the past week, Patrick had just about devoted himself to his songwriting for two main reasons:

  1. Patrick only had one client now so he wasn’t called in much for work. Sure, they would need his assistance from time to time, but it was nothing major like it used to be. He would even visit from time to time just to do something different.
  2. For some peculiar reason, the moment Patrick left Pete’s house last week, he felt determined to have something finished, or something impressive to perform the following week. It was invigorating, a new jolt of energy Patrick could never extract from a coffee, let alone his music.



With the startling buzz of his phone alarm, Patrick let out another sigh, placing his head on the desk and letting the alarm sound a few moments longer before hitting snooze. He had dressed slightly nicer than usual–though not by much–knowing his plans for today: it was his second appointment with Pete. He’d like to look at least _somewhat_ decent doing his job, even if his boss didn’t see him or his client wore pajamas.

Patrick hesitated in the doorway for another minute, debating if his guitar should accompany him on his journey, and decided against it. He wasn’t aware if Pete even owned any instruments, though it wasn’t the point of the encounter at all.

He regretted his poorly made decision the entire way there, obviously, but in all honesty, Patrick really did need a break. His fingers had begun to cramp up from clutching his guitar neck and his arms throbbed from endless hours on the drums. Patrick was sure his instruments appreciated the break as well.

Arriving in Pete’s neighborhood didn’t take very long–about twenty minutes or so. Patrick parked his car on the street and swiftly approached the familiar house with the maroon door and abandoned front yard. A week later, it still felt unsettling, though Patrick chose not to dwell in the thoughts of it this time. He knocked on the door several times, awaiting an answer.

He did not receive one. Go figure. Patrick knocked once more, inquiring a greeting and informing the house of his identity for good measure.

It did the trick.

Pete’s familiar figure loomed in the doorway to greet him, his face lighting up at the sight of Patrick.

“Patrick! What’s up, man?”

“Uh...hi, Pete.” Patrick awkwardly waved. He wasn’t expecting so much enthusiasm out of his client, especially from last week’s events. Patrick wasn’t too outgoing himself and would often act a bit sheepish around loud extroverts, especially at parties. This encounter was no exception.

“I didn’t think you’d show up.”

“I don’t think you understand what I’m actually here to do.” Pete seemed to be treating this second encounter like Patrick was an old friend invited to a house party. He did want to accomplish what he was assigned to do even if it took some time for Pete to get comfortable, but a part of him wished Pete would treat the appointment with some degree of respect.

“Show me your song? Cause I think I got some of the words worked out for you.” With that, Pete dismissed himself into his house, Patrick trailing behind and placing himself on the couch he had grown familiar with. It was funny how he had grown so attached to it after one visit.

As he waited for Pete’s return, Patrick took the few still moments he had left to glance around the house. It was dimly lit, darker furniture taking up the house’s space. White pages were scattered everywhere Patrick looked: some covered in writing, others yearning to have meaning. Patrick wondered just how much time Pete had spent with his words. He wondered what they were, what they meant. Nobody wrote like this without a purpose. Nobody wrote like this with a purpose.

“Okay,” Pete spoke, taking a seat next to Patrick this time. “There’s a bunch of random stuff I thought of on the back, but I was thinking it would be something along the lines of this.”

Patrick’s eyes skimmed the page, noting the reoccurring theme of scribbled out ideas, but smiled as his eyes met their ideas fused into one:

 _Mama, if we don’t take the medication, we won’t sleep for days.  
_ _Mama, if we pray to the lord, does he sing on a stage?_

“What’s the second part?”

“Well, you mentioned it repeating and stuff, so I thought it could be the same tune as before. I know it’s not what you wrote and I don’t really mind if you don’t like it–”

“Pete, that’s... _wow_.” It came as a surprised Pete even remembered the repeat. Patrick had barely mumbled it under his breath, left it as a decent piece tossed aside with the spare parts.

“You like it?” Pete’s eyes widened in excitement, his canines exposed, bright as a fresh winter’s snow. Patrick felt like a child watching the snow fall from their bedroom window.

“Obviously I like it! I–” Patrick exhaled audibly, letting out a chuckle as his head shook back and forth. “How do you come up with this stuff so quickly?”

“A week’s not that fast, man. I’ve got a whole lot of time on my hands and no one to spend it with.” A loud rip phonated before Patrick could linger on the thoughts of Pete’s loneliness, echoing slightly in the living room. It startled Patrick, causing him to jump back into the couch slightly. The paper was held out before him. Patrick’s eyes met the words he now held so dear, then the mastermind behind them.

“Keep it,” Pete grinned, “It was your work to start out with; I can’t take all the credit.” Patrick hesitated a few moments longer before accepting the page.

“Thanks.” A small, genuine smile formed on Patrick’s lips. The page was placed onto the table, allowing for a successful, clean folding process. Once placed into his pocket, Pete let out a grunt as he moved back to his previous seat.

“Alright. Let’s get started.”

“I’m...with what?”

“The thing you actually came here for?” Patrick’s eyes lit up, immediately adjusting his posture.

“You’re okay with it?”

“Sure. You’re a dude with good taste and talents.” Pete paused, glancing around the room as though he had misplaced something. “I’m supposed to take the couch, right?”

“Not necessarily, but if that would make you happy, Mr. Wentz.” Patrick joked, getting a grimace out of Pete.

“Don’t call me that. You sound like my dad’s agent.” Pete flashed a grin, the two implicitly agreeing to swap spots.

“Patrick.”

“Hm?” Patrick looked up from his new seat, taking in Pete’s gaze, shaken, scared. He was a bit confused as to what had caused the reaction so suddenly.

“How, uh...how did you know my last name?” Patrick’s visible concern switched to irritation in the blink of an eye. His eyes narrowed as a sharp glare was shot right at Pete’s grin.  A loud, barking laugh phonated from Pete’s lips at his reaction.

“Alright, Mister. Anything, in particular, you’d like to talk about?” Pete thought audibly for a moment, tapping the bottom of his chin.

“I had a pretty cool dream last night.”

“Interesting topic of choice,” Patrick remarked to himself, a slight tone of sarcasm lingering in his voice.

“I think you were in it. I didn’t see you, but I heard your voice.” Pete’s goofy grin faded from his face, his gaze now fixated on his fingernails. From what Patrick could see, they were incredibly short, remnants of black nail polish slowly chipping away with each passing day.

“I’ve been hearing it for years, actually. Like, at first, I thought it was gonna belong to someone, but I guess I just grew convinced it was Theirs, you know? I hadn’t met one person whose voice had the same color or way of communication, so at one point, I just gave up looking.” Pete’s mind was vulnerable, each idea spilling into the room like rapid fire, the floor recarpeted with unprecedented notions. Patrick lingered on each one, giving them more attention than they deserved, the spoiled, beautiful brats.

“Who do you mean by ‘They’?” Patrick had inquiry after inquiry queued in front of the desk, the line stretching out for miles. After a rapid struggle, this question had made it to the front of the line.

Pete was silent for a few moments longer, leaving Patrick to wonder if he had chosen the wrong query.

“I don’t know.” A beat. “I mean, They’ve never given me a name or a face. I just feel Their presence with me whenever I’m in my house.” Pete’s gaze rose to meet Patrick’s intense stare, obviously captivated by Pete’s tale. His face remained sober, serious like this search meant everything to him. “They talk to me, too. They tell me to remind Them of who they were, to teach Them everything They’ll forget.” He took another pause, slowly reaching into his sweatpants pocket and removing a small, crumpled sheet of paper. It weaved itself through Pete’s nervous fingers for a while before being placed onto the tabletop. Section by section, Pete flattened the paper, his fingers running over the countless creases. Patrick watched as the paper slid its way in front of him, his eyes tracing over the roughly written phrase:

_I’m a young one stuck in the thoughts of an old one’s head._

“Is that why you write so much?”

“I have to. They tell me how excited They are to find me one day since the rest of the world would only hurt them. Once I find Them, They’ll be able to read through their purest words. Their mind and body will become one, and They’ll remember everything about who they are. They promised me this would work.”

“This?” Pete nodded to himself.

“They promised to take me to MANIA once They remembered.” Pete locked eyes with Patrick once more. “Do you know what MANIA is, Patrick?”

Patrick opened his mouth to speak, a series of buzzes interrupting his response. It was time again. He pressed a few buttons to silence the watch, then looked back up at Pete.

“Uh, yes, but...mania typically implies that you’ll experience–”

“No, not that. It’s different.” Patrick needed some kind of pen and paper, some recording device, some way to document this. He wanted to understand, but there was so much to wrap his head around, it just seemed impossible. To Pete, every part seemed to make such perfect sense, seemed to be a routine train of thought.

“There’s never been a place in this world where any part of me was accepted. People pretend to, obviously, but everyone’s always stared or talked about me behind my back. This world is saturated with so much deceit and misery and sometimes it’s just fucking unbearable.” Pete reached for his notebook, flipping to a random page more than halfway through and drew a few lines, the image taking up both pages. The lines spelled out ‘M A  N I A’, each letter capitalized, growing more distant from the next. Patrick gently inquired about this observation.

“Each letter is free; They’re not shoved into place or forced to accept it for the rest of their lives. They maintain meaning, both as individuals and as a whole, and they get to choose where they reside. It’s a perfect balance unheard of here.”

“Did They tell you about MANIA? Like, what it’s about, er, what you’ll find there?”

“It would only be the two of us. Anyone else would probably just disturb the order.”

“That sounds a bit lonely.”

“Have you ever loved someone, Patrick?” The question hit him like a slap in the face, less the question itself, more the lack of relevance Patrick’s love life held in the conversation. Patrick fidgeted with his jacket’s sleeves, pushing them over the heels of his hands.

“I don’t mean, like, your mom, or someone.”

“Uh...yeah? But, what does that have to do with–”

“What was it like? How did…” Patrick’s face scrunched in confusion. Pete appeared to be waiting for an answer, though Patrick was unsure of what he was being asked. It took a few moments before Patrick slowly responded.

“...He?”

“How did he make you feel?” It was a thoughtful gesture not to assume Patrick’s sexuality, though he hadn’t thought about love for what felt like ages, let alone his past love:

His name was Cole. He was tall–much taller than Patrick, anyway–with beautiful black hair, brilliant, ice blue eyes, and a smile so blinding Patrick believed it was the true reason he needed glasses. Anytime Cole came into sight, his stomach turned, cheeks lighting up brighter than Christmas lights or fireworks on New Year’s Eve. He would laugh until his lungs gave out, spending hours upon hours in his company. The only things Patrick ever wanted in those moments were the moments themselves and nothing more. He felt pure happiness.

“Pretty good, right?” Pete chuckled, interrupting Patrick’s nostalgic thoughts. A visible smile had placed itself on Patrick’s face, his cheeks heating up more and more as each fond memory was replayed.

“He was my everything.” Each word was soft, fragile. Patrick’s found his fingers extremely interesting, weaving them through one another as he spoke. “I wanted to be with him every last moment I had left. He made me so happy, Pete.” Patrick’s smile softly faded from his lips, a defeated sigh escaping through his nose.

“Imagine feeling that forever. It’s you and your true love until the end of time. No fighting, no betrayal, not a single worry in the world. You can’t possibly feel lonely if everything you’ve ever wanted is right there beside you, right?”

“So, it’s like a utopia?”

“It’s better than a utopia.” Pete sighed contently. A moment passed, and Pete’s body tensed abruptly. His expression was intense, more intense than anything Patrick had ever regarded. He rose from his seat and approached Patrick, gripping each of his shoulders.

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone.” His eyes cut into Patrick’s causing them to water slightly. Patrick felt Pete’s entire frame tremble, the grip on Patrick’s shoulders growing tighter and tighter.

“W-we can’t ever get there if anyone knows. I-I know people are searching for me. They want to know everything I’ve told you.”

“Woah, woah, hey.” Patrick placed a hand on Pete’s squeezing it tightly. “Who’s looking for you?”

“The FBI, but please don’t tell them. You’re not working with them, right? Patrick. Patrick.”

“No, no! Pete, I’m not working with the FBI.” Patrick’s eyes were hypnotized by Pete’s quivering lips, the way his eyes pleaded for this one request. Patrick’s heart pounded in his chest, a quick shiver shooting through his body.

“That’s what an FBI agent would say.” Patrick let out a soft sigh.

“Here, come up here.” Pete remained frozen in fear for a few moments longer before obeying Patrick’s gentle request. An arm snaked around Pete’s back, pulling him closer to Patrick’s side.

“I told you I was here to listen. Did I ever mention telling other people?”

“...Well, n-no...but!”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” A silent sigh left Pete’s body as he inched closer into Patrick’s warm, soft figure. Patrick’s touch calmed him instantaneously, a comfort running through him he hadn’t felt before. It was a utopia in itself. A peaceful darkness began to cradle him, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier. With each new circle drawn into Pete’s shoulder blade, he drifted further and further into the darkness until everything was quiet and free of worry.

 

At least, for now.


	4. Lullabye

Patrick awoke, cold and alone. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, really, he hadn’t. It was a bit shocking how quickly Pete had fallen asleep last night, how quickly he had calmed himself from his previous apprehension. Was Patrick supposed to believe all of that? It was almost too insane to be true: Pete being tracked by the FBI, some voice speaking to him day in and out, MANIA. Pete was another one of his clients, Patrick couldn’t forget. A lot of his clients had believed bizarre concepts as well, but Pete seemed so certain of this, so devoted to achieving his goal. It almost felt too difficult to tell him the truth. Though, maybe Patrick didn't know the truth.

Running a hand through his own hair, Patrick sat up, adjusting his askew spectacles. The room appeared the same as it did last night, a fresh cup of coffee and a stack of pancakes before him the only alteration. Patrick’s stomach growled at the sight of the breakfast. He had omitted dinner due to falling asleep on Pete’s couch, so he was especially ravenous.

Leaning forward, Patrick picked up the silverware and dug into the stack of pancakes, the thick layer of syrup calling his name. Each bite was like heaven to his taste buds. He finished the stack much faster than he would have liked, but it was too addicting to savor. The coffee tasted similar to that of last week, though Patrick was no coffee connoisseur so he was content with any cup he could get his hands on.

“Mornin’, Sleeping Beauty!” Pete grinned from the kitchen doorway, pancake batter splattered onto his face. His hair was neatly flattened against his head as usual, unlike Patrick’s mess of strawberry blonde hair. He felt himself blush, fixing his hair with his fingertips.

He watched as Pete’s thick eyebrows furrowed at the sight of the empty red plate residing on the tabletop.

“Dude. If you didn’t like my cooking, you could have just said something.” Patrick could identify the statement as a joke this time, avoiding another embarrassing outburst. He laughed sarcastically, rolling his eyes before fully comprehending Pete's statement.

“You actually made that from scratch?” He inquired in awe, eyes widening like a child’s. Pete’s goofy grin resurfaced as he approached Patrick, taking a seat beside him on the couch.

“Pretty impressive, huh?” Patrick nodded loudly. He wasn’t sure why it shocked him so much, though, at a first glance, he wasn’t sure anyone would peg Pete as a cook of any kind.

“I have some more–”

“Please–I...uh…that’d be nice.” Pete’s grin beamed brightly, Patrick becoming evermore cognisant of the frames placed upon his face. Maybe Cole wasn’t the real reason he needed them.

“You got it, Trick.” Patrick’s face glowed red the moment Pete turned towards the kitchen. Why was he acting so odd? Part of him wanted to stay in Pete’s mess of a household, despite his urge to walk outside, taste the fresh air of morning, and return to his beloved instruments. He had never felt so inclined to stay in the company of another before.

Patrick’s glance wandered off to the small black journal Pete had revealed to him the evening before, curiosity getting the best of his impulse. He quickly snatched the journal, flipping through the first few blank pages before immersing himself into the meat of the author’s work. Each sheet was saturated with words too beautiful for Patrick to resist. Looking back up to ensure Pete wasn’t re-entering the room yet, Patrick whipped out his phone, snapping a few pictures of phrases sparking his interest.

Honey is for bees, silly bear.  
Besides there’s jelly beans everywhere.  
_It’s not what it seems in the land of dreams.  
_Don’t worry your head just go to sleep.

_When you wake up, the world will come around._

 He wanted to make something with this, form a melody and share it with Pete. He wanted Pete to love it, to feel just as excited as Patrick did seeing Pete’s alterations of his work.

Footsteps phonated in the kitchen and Patrick quickly closed the notebook, sliding it back to its previous location.

“Do your parents ever come to visit you?” Pete’s smile faded instantaneously. He placed the second stack of pancakes in front of Patrick responding just a few moments afterward.

“I can’t let them. They’d ruin everything.”

“Your parents?”

“They’re with the FBI. They told me.”

“...Your...parents told you they’re involved with the FBI–”

“I think They’re a He, actually. They sound like a He.” Patrick really wasn’t sure if Pete should be listening to this voice. It might be in his best interest to leave the house for some time, maybe take a walk to clear his head. He took a first bite of the fresh tower, just as delectable as the last.

“Oh, my God, they’re so good,” Patrick mumbled, mouth stuffed with pancake. He swallowed, switching back to the more serious topic of discussion. “How do you know He’s telling the truth?”

“He kept me alive when everyone else ignored me. I had no friends at school, no one to hang out with on the weekends. Not even my parents cared when they found me in my room, in tears, covered with blood.” The room had fallen silent, still. Patrick’s fork loosely hung from his fingertips, every last ounce of his energy focused on his client.

“I was gonna give up. I almost got away with it, actually. But...I heard this voice telling me it was the wrong decision. It promised me things would get better, that I’d actually escape this hellhole. There was something about His tone...it just felt too genuine to ignore, so I didn’t. I owe Him everything, Patrick. I owe Him my life. Trust is the least I can give.”

Patrick’s chest throbbed in agony as he pulled his cardigan tighter around himself. He had no idea Pete had gone through so much as a child. A part of him wondered if he would have ever known if Pete hadn’t told him directly. He was so open, so truthful with his feelings. It was surprising to Patrick; he would never be this open with another so soon.

“Pete…”

“Don’t feel sorry for me, or anything.” Pete sniffled, itching his nose, “Like, I’m here now, and I’m gonna reach MANIA once He finds me. I’m willing to wait as long as it takes.”

“Do you know what He looks like or how to find Him?”

“Uhh...no...no. I think we’ll both just know when it happens, you know?” Patrick’s mouth tightened, nodding a couple times. “I dunno.”

“I hope you two meet soon, Pete.” He finished softly, offering a toothless smile.

“...Thanks, man.” Pete returned his smile, a genuine appreciation for Patrick’s words in his gaze. “That actually means a lot.”

With that, Patrick finished up the remainder of his coffee, thanking Pete graciously for the meal. Standing up from his seat, Patrick stretched out his arms, a loud, unexpected yawn escaping his lips. He blushed, excusing himself. Pete merely laughed in response.

“So, I’ll see you next week on the...the 30th?”

“Uh, actually, could I reschedule to see you, like...three times a week?” Patrick’s eyes widened at the query. The man who had refused to talk to him face to face–the man who didn’t even want Patrick entering his house–wanted to be seen three times a week?

“Are you serious?” Pete rubbed the back of his neck nervously in response. His eyes darted down to his Metallica themed socks, then back up to Patrick’s bright, innocent gaze.

“I mean...yeah if that works for you. For some reason, it just feels really nice talking to you. Like, I just feel a lot better when I do.” Patrick blinked several times in response, a flattered smile spreading on his face.

“Yeah, that works for me, absolutely.” Patrick removed his hat, placing it back onto his head. “Did you want longer appointments instead, or…?”

“How long can I make them?”

“Uh...I’ve never gone longer than, like, two hours. I don’t think there’s a set limit.” Pete nodded several times.

“Alright. Cool.”

“Yeah, uh,” Patrick sniffled, adjusting his glasses, “I’ll see you...Wednesday, then.”

“I look forward to it.” A grin was plastered onto Pete’s face each moment of the discussion. He almost seemed eager to meet with Patrick, though Patrick was unsure of the motive. It seemed unlikely Pete would want to meet with someone he had only meet a week ago, but Patrick had no complaints about visiting more frequently. He was actually eager to come back and learn more about his client, more eager than he’d ever been.

“Me too.”

Patrick turned his back to make his leave, a warm hand grasping onto his wrist before he could exit the manor. His body tensed at the contact, a sharp inhale taken into his body.

“Wait.” Patrick’s head turned back to meet Pete’s gaze once more, though he found himself unable to form a response as another hand clasped the back of his neck, pulling him into a warm kiss. Patrick trembled, doing his best to melt back into the kiss. His hand slowly made its way to Pete’s head, fingers running through his flat, jet black locks. It distracted him slightly, allowing him to enjoy the kiss more than mere moments prior.

The more he thought about it, the more Patrick realized how much he missed this form of affection: two lovers entangled in one another, their parts close, their minds one. The sensations were better than Patrick remembered and he wanted every last drop he could muster. He was growing greedy, impatient. The grip on Pete’s hair began to tighten with each new area of his mouth Pete’s tongue explored, Patrick’s other hand grabbing onto Pete’s crotch. An abrupt moan rolled in his client’s throat before he pulled away from the kiss, leaving Patrick breathless and hungry.

Pete’s dark brown eyes met Patrick’s bright ocean eyes, a low chuckle escaping his full lips.

“I have to make sure you’re loyal to me first, Trick.” Pete ran a hand through Patrick’s hair, landing a final kiss on his forehead. “That’s why you have to come back.”

“I will.” Patrick’s head bobbed up and down. “I will, I promise.”

The maroon door closed behind Patrick once again, the cloudy world revealed to him once more. He wanted to turn around and ask to stay another night but knew better. Hopping into his car, Patrick started the engine and began the drive back home.

Every turn was boring and predictable. It was torture. Patrick grew antsy as he sped by each house, too similar to to the last. Not even the music of Costello phonating from his radio could free him from this nature. Costello always made things better.

Patrick’s parking job was sloppy, though he couldn’t care less. The car door was thrown closed behind him and Patrick let out several large puffs of relief, almost as though the car had lacked oxygen.

Sprinting back to his house and clumsily fumbling with his keys to enter the familiar household, Patrick made a beeline to his guitar, practically throwing his phone out of his jeans pocket. He had never possessed potential lyrics as brilliant as these and wouldn’t make the mistake to waste them.

This time, Patrick was going to write something he was proud of. He was certain of it.


	5. Headfirst Slide Into Cooperstown on a Bad Bet

“Dude.” Patrick’s left hand gripped around the neck of his guitar, his glance following Pete’s voice, waiting for whatever was going to come next.

He had taken Pete’s work, he had written half an acoustic lullaby of jellybeans and Ferris wheels. The words held meanings Patrick didn’t particularly understand as well as Pete, but he found a connection to them nevertheless. It was an experience beyond logical explanation, but Patrick was okay with that. They meant something to Pete and that was enough. At least, he hoped it was.

“You just dug through my shit without asking and stole it to put in your song?” Patrick slowly pulled his guitar closer to his chest, tracing the side of its body with his calloused fingertip.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick mumbled down at the wood, hunching forward in shame. He hadn’t thought about it that way and certainly didn’t intend any harm or theft. There was just something about Pete’s writing that kept Patrick intrigued, kept his mind racing at a hundred miles an hour. His eyes began to fill up with tears. “I-I didn’t mean it like that, I just–”

“Hey, don’t cry over it, Trick.” Pete took a seat next to the guitarist, wrapping an arm around him. “I think it’s great! It’s fucking amazing, actually.” Patrick shrugged weakly, mumbling something inaudible to himself. “And that took you, what? Like, a day? Two days?”

“A day, yeah.” Patrick sniffled, his tone dull and quiet. Patrick’s fingertips slipped under his frames to wipe away tears pooling up in his eyes.

“It took you a fucking _day_!” Pete explained, letting out a bright chuckle. Patrick didn’t respond, his interest focused onto his guitar.

“Listen, man. I really appreciate you using my stuff, but...just ask first, okay? You don’t go digging through my stuff without telling me. Are we clear?” There was a stern tone in Pete’s voice, disguised as something casual and carefree. It shouldn’t have scared Patrick as much as it did at that moment.

“ _Patrick_ , are we clear?”

“Yes, we’re clear.” A kiss landed on Patrick’s cheek, a wave of relief and calm crashing over his head. He leaned in closer to Pete’s torso, placing his head onto Pete’s chest.

“Good. How was your Tuesday, Trick?” Patrick thought audibly, feeling a finger trace down his sideburn and blushing at the contact.

“It was...fine, I guess?” Patrick let out a chuckle, setting his guitar aside on the couch, then returning to his former position. He would mention all of his hard work creating a song Pete would enjoy but from Pete’s primary reaction, he decided to stray from picking at that scab of a topic. “It wasn’t too eventful.”

“Yeah, mine was pretty boring and lonely. I missed you a lot, Trick.” His bold eyes connected with Patrick’s once more, Patrick tilting his head up from its position on Pete’s chest.

“Yeah?”

“Like, if I’m being honest with you, I don’t think I’ve ever slept so well as I did Sunday night. I usually only get, like, two to four hours, so that was a miracle.” Pete grinned, chuckling to himself, his arm moving down Patrick’s back slightly. “You’re just so warm and squishy.”

“Gee, _thanks_.” Patrick puffed sarcastically.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” Pete’s eyebrows were furrowed from Patrick’s response, hair falling into his face.

“No, I know.” Patrick let out a quick giggle to himself before the house fell silent. Patrick’s eyes darted around for leaf to leaf of paper, covered in ideas he’d never discover anywhere else. Language handled with such care that Patrick wished to see Pete in action, furiously writing page after page of phrases for only him and another to understand.

“Did, uh...did He talk to you last night?” Pete merely regarded Patrick for a few moments before responding with the nod of his head.

“Yeah; it’s pretty unusual for Him not to. He–” Pete stiffened up mid-thought, his eyes filling with a familiar fear.

“You didn’t share that song with–”

“I didn’t share it with anyone, I promise. It’s just for you.”

“Okay. Good.” A few moments passed by, a sigh of relief escaping Pete’s lips as he ran a hand through his hair. “Is that what you were humming the other night?” Patrick’s face grew bright red, his body language growing more and more sheepish as he sunk into himself. “The song, I mean.”

“You heard that?” Patrick attempted to sit back up, but Pete’s gentle hold forced him still in place.

“I mean, it _was_ right in my ear. You’re a pretty loud hummer, you know that, Trick?” Patrick nervously kneaded his feet on the side of the couch, feeling another hand playing with his blonde hair. He was almost tempted to let out a soft purr of content, the gestures so soothing, bringing such solace into his troubled world.

“I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You didn’t. It actually helped me out more than you’d think.” Patrick let out a sharp gasp as Pete’s hand slid under his jeans, under his briefs. His fingers brushed over the beginning of Patrick’s ass, the touch warm and new. “Like I said, I finally got some sleep. _Real_ sleep, but it was unusual. I didn’t…” Patrick’s eyes followed Pete’s lips with each word leaving his world and entering Patrick’s own. “I didn’t hear Him that time.”

The house fell silent once more, Pete’s caress halting to nothing more than a warm print on Patrick’s lower back. Patrick’s response was slow, gentle.

“But, you heard Him last night, didn’t you?”

“I heard Him last night singing your song, just with different lyrics.”

“And it’s always just...like, words, er, songs?” Pete thought audibly once more, though only for a brief moment before he replied.

“No.” His tone was blunt, almost content. The vibrations echoed throughout the house, repeating itself over and over in Patrick’s mind. That couldn’t be it. That couldn’t be the whole answer, the whole truth. Pete seemed content knowing Patrick needed more, or maybe Patrick was reading too much into this.

“So...what else is there?” Pete didn’t respond, almost as though he hadn’t heard the question. Patrick had no desire to repeat himself, his stomach tying in knots as each second passed.

“I heard some moaning.” The reply was mercy and agony all at once, the room falling silent. Patrick felt like he was suffocating, his lungs unable to take in oxygen no matter how hard he tried. Pete’s gaze shifted down to Patrick, gently removing the hat from his head and revealing his furrowed eyebrows. “But I wanted it to come from you specifically, you know?” Patrick’s face went pale, forcing himself into a seated position.

“No, I–I don’t know!” Patrick fumed, pressing his fingertips onto his forehead. The sensation of Pete’s hand hovering just above his ass gave him no sense of comfort, only heightening his heartbeat and his nerves. “Like–” He sighed loudly, his gaze falling onto the messy tabletop. “This-this whole thing is a mess, Pete; I’m not supposed to be here as your...your boyfriend, or something.”

“You could be.”

“No–that’s not the _point_ , Pete! I’m supposed to fix you, to–to–” Patrick hissed, his body growing tense. He continued to avoid eye contact with his client. One glance at Pete and Patrick would take a guilt trip far longer than he wanted. “It’s my fucking _job_ to be here! It’s not just some chance for you to hit on me! I gave up _all_ of my other clients–who I really liked, by the way–just to do...whatever this is, and for what? Nothing’s changed, I haven’t helped, you’re still the same.” Patrick let out a long, soft sigh, leaning over, placing his head in his hands. “This is a fucking mess,” he chuckled sadly, the room falling silent. Patrick was getting sick of it doing so.

Pete’s hand snaked back around to Patrick’s side, rubbing the side of his arm.

“I’m not all your other clients, Trick, like. I’m a fucking tough nut to crack.” A short giggle rang in Patrick’s left ear, a spark shooting through him, causing his heart to throb. “It’s not your job to fix me.”

“But, it is–”

“No, it’s _not_. Don’t you remember that, Patrick? You told me you were here to listen to me and you’re not doing such a hot job right now.” Patrick sniffled, nodding several times into his hands before sitting back up. His bright pink cheeks were coated in tears, hair sticking to his face.

Pete’s other hand wrapped around Patrick’s chin, turning his face Pete’s way.

“Look at me.” Patrick was silent, tears sliding down his face, falling onto Pete’s wrist. He felt his chest tighten as each splattered onto Pete. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Patrick, _look at me_.” His eyes obeyed, slowly wandering up to meet Pete’s intense glare. Every last drop of energy Patrick had left was used forcing himself to keep his eyes dry. It was draining. Patrick could feel the weight of his body collapsing in on itself.

“You’ve stuck with me when no one else did, not even my own parents.” Pete planted a kiss on Patrick’s forehead. It was firm, warm, and comforting, but not really. “It’s really easy for me to feel like I’ve just wasted my time waiting for my real life to start, but you just...you just bring so much into my world. Like, God’s gonna have to kill me twice, I’ve lived so much.” An exhale escaped Pete’s lips before he continued.

“Patrick, I feel like you’re the person I’ve been searching for.” Patrick’s body went rigid, forcefully detaching Pete’s hand away from his jaw. He shot up from his seat, Pete following his actions.  “Hear me out, man.”

“Oh, rich,” Patrick chuckled bitterly, “What am I supposed to hear you out about?”

“Don’t you think it’s a _little_ more than coincidental that I’ve heard your voice for years? _Years_ , Patrick.”

“No, Pete. I-I think it’s complete bullshit, I’ll be honest with you. I’m just some boring guy who likes drums; how would I be this...muse for your writing?”

“ _I_ would know! That’s–that’s the whole thing! Those are _your_ words I’ve been hearing.”

“I can’t write for shit, Pete–”

“It’s _your_ fucking voice, Patrick! You’ve been telling me this whole goddamn time to help _you_ remember that!”

“I-I _never_ said that, alright?!” He drew out the word, making every last syllable crystal clear in hopes the message would finally sink in. Several breaths audibly slipped from Patrick’s mouth. “I never agreed to this–I don’t _want_ this!”

“It’s not your _fucking_ choice!!” Patrick’s body twitched, frozen in fury and fear. Pete’s eyes were a wildfire, feeding off every last leaf of paper scattered throughout the house. It was too powerful for even the sea to extinguish. Patrick couldn’t help but wonder how long he had left before his ocean eyes were clawed up by this flame. This wasn’t how things were supposed to work. Everything was backward.

“I didn’t get to choose this life and neither do you.” The change in Pete’s tone was drastic, but far too firm and controlling to be dismissed as calm or reassuring. “So, you can either grow some balls and accept the truth, or you can run out that door and ruin everything.” There was quiet. Patrick took a few more steps toward the door before being chained down by Pete’s words.

“Do you really wanna ruin my life, Patrick?” Though Patrick couldn’t see Pete’s expression, he heard agony and hopelessness in each word. His body grew heavy as the words repeated themselves in Patrick’s mind. Over. And over. And over. And over. It was like his body knew Pete was right; it knew Patrick was the one he had been referring to, the one he had been looking for even if Patrick himself was oblivious to the concept.

Pete wanted to be happy. It was all he wanted. It was all Patrick wanted.

So, no. The last thing Patrick wanted was to ruin Pete’s life.

But that didn’t stop him from storming out of the house through the familiar maroon door. It didn’t stop him from starting the car, driving home, and sitting in silence at his desk. It didn’t stop him from fiddling with the slip of paper Pete had given to him for hours, one with words he held so dear. It made no sense. None of it did. Patrick did a quick take of the back of the page, something he had never thought of examining until this point. Printed on the second side were more thoughts and phrases he had yet to discover:

I will never end up like him  
_Behind my back I already am  
_Keep a calendar, this way you will always know

A short, sorrowful sigh rushed from Patrick’s nose. He almost laughed. For the first time, the lyrics seemed to make sense, seemed to connect to his life. It was as though they understood him more than he understood himself. It was as though they were him. The sensation was peculiar. Patrick thought he liked it, though he couldn’t explain why. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to try. Instead, Patrick reached for his guitar and began to create a melody for the message hidden on the B-side of Pete’s paper. His hands fiddled on the neck for hours, feeling the song–lyrics, even–coming to him instantaneously.

“It’s a sign,” Patrick hummed along to his instrument’s song, “It’s a sign.” He was almost convinced it was. He was almost convinced Pete was right. “It’s a sign.”

Almost.


End file.
